


Proud At Heart

by ufp13



Category: E.R.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ufp13/pseuds/ufp13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>behind the façades lie depths and lies you wouldn't expect</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud At Heart

Mit blutverschmierten Händen  
Mit einer Träne im Gesicht  
Einem Lächeln auf den Lippen  
Und der Hoffnung tief im Blick  
Aufzustehen auch aus dem Dreck  
Tief beschmutzt und stolz im Herz

(„Stolzes Herz“ – Lacrimosa) *

 

Too many wrinkles around her lips. Around the eyes, too. Not to talk about her neck. Eyeing herself in the mirror of the dressing table, scrutinising, she tugged at her skin. She was starting to show her age far more than she would have liked to. Some people called her picky, she knew, but she couldn’t help but mourn every new wrinkle she discovered. She was decaying like her marriage. Too strong a word? Maybe when it came to her, however, certainly not when it came to the marriage. She was aware that people blamed her for it, that they saw her cold exterior and his charming smile and figured she simply had to be the reason, the cause, for everything that led this liaison to failure. The world, it seemed, was just as superficial as the results of the vespertine inspection of her appearance. Just because she did not, could not, show emotions in public, didn’t mean that she didn’t feel anything. Quite the contrary: all those losses, all those hard words spoken behind her back on the assumption that she didn’t hear them, that they would ricochet from her icy armour without so much as leaving a scratch, had pained her deeply, she just didn’t let on. She cared for her family, loved her family, but had unlearned to express that affection. Seeing the hurt in their eyes when she had yet again failed to treat them the loving way they deserved, seeing the mentally rolled eyes as clearly as if the eyes had moved for real when she neared made her want to hate herself as much as they hated her. She was unable to do that, though, for she knew the other side of the coin, knew that the pain on her side equalled theirs even if the reasons were different. As justified as their dislike might have been, it was unjustified.

Sighing, she picked up the hairbrush and let it glide through her hair. With her eyes closed, she enjoyed the moment of stillness, the massage-like feeling of the bristles on her scalp; it was one of the priceless luxuries of her day because it was a banal one, a short time for herself alone, a time when she tuned out everything, everybody, else. The loud noise with which the door was pushed open broke her meditative state of mind. On slightly unsteady feet, her husband entered the room. How she hated the evenings when he had drunken a bit more than he should have. It didn’t happen very often, though with increasing frequency. Not that anybody except she would notice; it never happened outside their current residence. He had a reputation to loose and a façade to uphold, after all. She could even see the appeal of washing away the clear image of reality with alcohol; blurry edges were much cosier, much more comfortable to live in, easier to fit around oneself.

Roughly, he took the brush from her and threw it onto the dressing table where it landed with a loud clatter that made her flinch, though she didn’t turn around. Folding her hands in her lap, she kept her eyes focused on them. She didn’t want to, didn’t dare look up, afraid of what she would find there. A small, delusional part of her mind still hoped that it, he, would go away if she didn’t acknowledge him, but to no avail. His fingers closed bruisingly around her upper arm, pulling her up while knocking over the chair in the same motion. Ineptly, she stumbled to her feet, trying to catch her balance, steadying herself with the free arm on the nearby piece of furniture.

“Not much beauty left in the bitch,” he rumbled, breathing alcohol-stained air directly into her face. She turned her head away to the side to avoid the full blow of the smell that made her nauseous. A moment later, however, her jaw was locked in the firm grip of his hand, forcing her to face him again. “No avoidance.” Only an inch left between their faces. “No denial.” His mouth crashed down on hers. She tried to push him away, kept her lips shut tightly, kicked his shinbone – fought him in every way she could think of, but when all her efforts proved to be fruitless, only seemed to fuel his determination, the strength with which he handled her, she surrendered, retreated into herself. As her lips became soft under his and he shoved his tongue past them forcefully into her mouth, she made one last attempt to get him to leave her alone by biting down hard onto his tongue. The action had the reverse effect than the one she had hoped for, though. He did retreat from her mouth, but the grip on her arm tightened, his short but hard nails stinging into her skin, and she was hurled onto the bed. With a shriek, she bumped onto the mattress. Having landed on her back, she attempted to roll to her side, and probably even off the bed, but he was faster than she. Before she actually managed a ninety degree turn, he was above her, on her, pushing her onto her back. His hands gripping her wrists, his weight on her legs left her with no means of active resistance. Her plan was simple but not always easy to accomplish: shutting him out by not looking at him, denying him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he hurt her and refusing to actively participate in this sick game of his in any way. Yes, she knew it was a game; his way of figuring out how far he could raise the stakes until she would break, until she would finally hurt – for he, like about everybody else, was under the illusion that she didn’t hurt as long as he couldn’t hear it in her voice or see it on her face. She didn’t like the game but was unable to elude participation.

His teeth sank into her shoulder near the neck. The bite was hard, aiming for a sound of pain from her throat that didn’t come. She was biting her tongue to suppress every sound. He would only start needling her with words once she expressed her pain in any way, and those words hurt her more than any bite or slap ever could for they went from her ears to her brain to her heart, shattering it just a bit more. So she bore the pain in silence.

Frantic and slightly uncoordinated, his hands tugged at her nightgown, pushing it out of the way. She thought she had heard material tear but wasn’t sure. Her senses had lost nearly all connection to reality, shutting out the harsh treatment of the body they belonged to.

As his teeth collided with the flesh of her breast, she squeezed her eyes shut. All those years as lovers had taught him her sensitive places, the places where his touch would bring her the most pleasure – or the most pain. Treating her nipples in every way but with the tender, playful touch that conveyed his almost boyish fascination for those assets, he fuelled the hate in her. How dare he use the knowledge won in hours after hours of loving against her now? She would have cried if she had let herself. But she would not cry; that much she owed herself.

A feeling of disgust roused within her when he surceased her breasts and drew caressing lines over her cleavage and bosom. The faked tenderness made her want to throw up, especially since the touch created an illusion of their better times, of the times when he meant it, when her body did hold his fascination, when hate for each other was the last thought on their minds. It was this illusion that stirred her love for him. She disliked herself for still loving him despite what he did to her, despite how he treated her; however, she had realised long ago that emotions could not be governed. You could try to direct them, but you would never be able to control them; so, she was stuck with her love for him she didn’t want to feel anymore.

Forcefully, she was torn out of her analysis of her feelings as her panties fell victim to his merciless hands. Pure mental strength and practice kept her eyes closed. The sound of his zipper being opened increased her heartbeat. She waited for the stinging pain of being roughly penetrated, but nothing happened.

“Look at me,” he growled into her ear. The sudden, rather loud tone ringing in her ears startled her.

Experience had taught her that it would be better to follow his order immediately and without hesitation, but she ignored the rational part of her conscience, stubbornly clinging to her plan of resistance. As expected, despite hope against hope for the contrary, her refusal didn’t serve her well. Hard, his hand cracked down onto her cheek.

“I said, look at me!”

She still didn’t obey. A second time, he slapped her, with even more force than before.

“Look at me, bitch!”

No, disobedience didn’t sit well with him at all. But if he thought that a blow or two to her face would make her do as he said, he should think again. She was of a tougher stock than that. She would not give… her mouth was covered by one of his hands while the other pinched her nose closed. With her therefore free hands, she reached for his wrists, trying to remove his hands to free her airways. A knee driven into her groin ended the attempt effectively.

“Look. At. Me. Bitch.” His voice was calm and cold, slicing through the air like a sharp knife.

Her lungs started to burn, her heartbeat sped up, the pressure in her chest rose. She knew he wouldn’t suffocate her, wouldn’t kill her with his bare hands; however, there was always the small chance of her assumption being false. As tiny as the chance was, she couldn’t risk it. Opening her eyes, she turned her head to him, and he unblocked her airways. Desperately, she gasped for air to fill her lungs, to give her body the much needed oxygen while staring into his eyes without seeing them. If she didn’t concentrate on not seeing, she would find him in his eyes, she would discover the man she had once fallen in love with behind the wall of rage and hate, the man who still had a special place in her heart, the man who – just rammed his erection into her, not caring about the pain he caused her, about the piercing scream that threatened to escape her, about the strength it cost her to keep her eyes open and focused on him. Tears welled up in her eyes, tears she was unable to suppress, tears she hated herself for. But they would not fall, she swore to herself.

Unapologetic about her unprepared body, he kept hammering into her, obviously enjoying the friction of flesh. It burned, it hurt, although her body’s reaction to the stimulation provided some relief. It was beyond her how he could crave such pain. Didn’t it hurt the same for him? Or had the alcohol numbed his body’s reception enough to damp down the ache? The why behind his actions was a question she hadn’t been able to find an answer to, not the least because she couldn’t possibly ask him.

“Enjoying it, aren’t you, whore?” he snarled at her as he felt her getting wetter.

“Not in the least,” she wanted to answer but kept her mouth shut, not wishing to incur his wrath again full force. It might leave her with marks that couldn’t be easily covered with make-up or the right clothes. The pain she would experience between her legs for the coming days was enough of a reminder.

He pulled out nearly all the way before pushing back in, fast and hard. An airy hiss escaped through her teeth; one he decided to interpret as a sound of lustfulness against his better knowledge. “Yep, definitely enjoying it.” Evilness the master of his smile, he repeated the motion. She bit her tongue; she wouldn’t hiss again, wouldn’t encourage him. The problem was that, sometimes, no reaction at all proved to be encouragement enough. Though today, he didn’t need any further encouragement. He was gone too far, too lost in the pleasure he took from her. A few more thrusts and he came within her. His erection pulsating, he spilled his seed into her. Fucking mess. She’d have to clean up, most likely take a shower to get rid of the feeling of him – his sperm, his sweat, the lingering of his bruising touch –, to calm her betraying body which was throbbing with need by now. It disgusted her. She disgusted herself. He disgusted her, his snorting sounds as he collapsed heavily on her, the feel of his weight she had once welcomed, had felt sheltered and protected by, his sweat that ran from his forehead, wetting her cheeks.

With a moist plop, he pulled out of her, rolling off her body but staying close. He showered her cleavage with soft kisses full of affection. A hand sneaked between her legs, fondling her sex. The gentleness of his touch as he rubbed her clitoris berated his prior actions. She submitted to his intimacies, despite the urge to push him away, the wish to remember his angry touch to finally persuade the still loving part of her heart that it would be better for her entire being – body and soul – to let go of him, to stop caring, to distance herself from him.

His motion slowed down, his kisses became less frequent until they stopped altogether, and he rested his head against her shoulder, fallen asleep.

Torn between relief that it was finally over and frustration that he had fuelled her need but hadn’t seen it through, she rolled him onto his back and got up. On unsteady feet, she walked awkwardly to the bathroom. Once the door was shut and closed behind her, she got rid of her nightgown before sinking to the ground, back against the door. Hugging her legs to her chest, she curled up, her head resting on her knees. The tears she had held back through the whole ordeal streamed freely now. Soundlessly, she sobbed, something she would never allow herself if someone was around. This picture of a broken woman didn’t fit in with her façade of the independent, strong mistress. Yes, she was strong; he wouldn’t get her down. Mentally kicking her ass, she picked herself up and stumbled into the shower, avoiding the mirror because she knew she wouldn’t like what she would see, like it even less than the image she had so pedantically inspected earlier.

Turning on the water, she let the warm spray enfold her, rinse off what he had left on her skin. Lots of shower gel was used as she lathered her body: neck, arms, chest, stomach, feet, legs, her sex the last. When she cleaned her vulva, her fingers collided with her still sensitive pleasure point that absorbed her touch instantly and screamed for more. She cursed her body. How dare it betray her mind like that? She considered ignoring the need it signalled but knew that her mind would suffer for she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep like that and would use the time she lay awake thinking about what had happened. So she spread her legs and leaned her back against the tiles. Eyes closed, she rubbed her clitoris gently but harder than he had done, dreaming of better times, times when they had shared showers to have fun with the everyday task of cleaning, when the only bruises he had caused on her skin had been hickeys. With practised fingers, she gave her body what it demanded, biting her lips as not to release a moan to echo from the shower walls. She didn’t want to enjoy this. After some minutes, she pushed her sated form back under the spray, letting the water fall onto her face. Then she turned the water off and stepped out of the shower.

Wrapped into a big, fluffy towel, she braved the mirror. Her cheeks still bore the imprint of his hand; she would most likely need some more make-up than usual in the morning. It might even cover some of the wrinkles. A soundless, dry laugh passed her lips. Repression wasn’t the best course of action in the long run, but, for now, it would have to do. She’d think of a different way later. Until then she would be okay, wouldn’t she? Staring into the reflection of her eyes, she searched for the answer to her question. A small smile crept onto her lips, and she nodded to herself. Yes, Eleanor, you can do it. You will survive. You will emerge victorious. He will not get you down. Shoulders straightened, head held high, she turned away from her mirror image and left the bathroom in search of her hairbrush.

= End =

 

*) Translation from the original German:

With blood-stained hands  
With a tear on the face  
A smile on the lips  
And hope deep behind the eyes  
To raise even from the dirt  
Deeply soiled and proud at heart.

(“Proud Heart” – Lacrimosa)


End file.
